With winter comes the scent of heater-vent exhaust

that is more reminiscent of brisk mornings than the wet and fallen leaves.

That period in conversation

where a thought trails to dead-end in wet blackberry bramble

only makes me yearn to inhale that exhaust

and forget dripping branches and golden leaves.

But today I leave fumy embrace

with pack and teflon sleeping bag:

I'll dive into the pricking thicket
until my flesh drips like soggy sticks
and next morning's fog makes my lungs crisp.